Light Is the Only Witness To Ruin
by Philip F. Clark
Light is the only witness to ruin;
we hold our lives like wood in our hands,
as we hew it in wonder. We carve out our kings.
They don’t last. We make monuments.
Our cut and knarled fingers grip each other;
unused to embrace, we touch as if we
were blind, hoping by touch to find the place
where flesh remembers its moorings.
Skin hungers but asks nothing of our hands.
We walk over and over until we become
our own roads, though few follow the paths.
What was here, who were we, what might we have been?
Each year we met on the road, we parted.
Night too has its asides and whispers;
it holds its ounce of forgiving dark. A shape in light
is the same at night — yet the one needs eyes
and the other hands. There has been lamentation here.
— PHILIP F. CLARK
Photograph copyright Ronaldo Aguiar, 2014.